


light up, light up

by irishais



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 12:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11782773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishais/pseuds/irishais
Summary: For once, he is at a total loss for words. Squall and Laguna, graveside. For summonerluna.





	light up, light up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SummonerLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SummonerLuna/gifts).



There are times that his son looks so much like Raine that Laguna thinks he’s hallucinating, that he’s young and in Winhill for the first time, a gentle breeze in the air, and Raine’s sigh, the shrug of her shoulders. He has to freeze in those times, take a deep breath, fingers digging deep into the muscle of his leg before it spasms and makes him look like a complete idiot. 

This is not one of those times, and Laguna stands frozen in the cropped-short grass of the Timber cemetary for an entirely different reason, watching the sun set on the slumped shoulders of his boy. Laguna has missed out on seventeen years of Squall’s life, and another two and a half just trying to build up the courage to talk to him beyond a brief phone call, or those times where business takes him beyond Esthar’s barriers and into Balamb. He has missed out on  _ so much time _ , and the ten years since have seemed like nothing. 

 

He hadn’t expected to be here for this. 

No one should have to be here for this, watching their son bury his wife. 

If it weren’t for the flask in his hand, cheap metal filled with expensive whiskey, Laguna doesn’t know if he would have had the courage to stay at all, to board a plane and fly to Timber in the peak of fall-- Rinoa’s favorite season, he knows, he knows. 

He takes another sip, screws the cap on, and sucks up all of his bravery. The grass crunches beneath his feet, fading, falling leaves drifting from the endless trees. There is an orange one that has landed on the shoulder of Squall’s suit jacket, brilliant and bright against the pristine black. 

Laguna brushes it away as he approaches, and Squall startles. 

“You, uh-- had something,” he says, pointing up as Squall reaches back, brushes his hand over the now-empty spot. He exhales, and Laguna feels it like a punch to the gut, the desolation in Squall’s eyes and breath and face. 

He doesn’t know what else to do, so unscrews the cap of the flask again, and offers it up. 

Squall looks at it, like it’s the first recognizable thing he’s seen in months, and tips it back to his mouth, drinks, drinks, drains it dry, hands it back, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Thanks,” he says, the first thing Laguna’s heard him say all day. (He doesn’t know about the morning, the wee hours where Squall had been blankly opening cabinets in his kitchen, and had called out,  _ Rin, do we have any more coffee--? _ )

His son shifts in his chair, whiskey working like a remedy, confusion dispelling as he looks around at the empty chairs, the empty graveyard. “Where is-- did everyone leave?”    
  


Yeah, they had. Touched his shoulder, wished him the best, whispered their apologies, SeeDs and parents and children and Ellone the last, wrapping her arms around his motionless shoulders, lips against his temple. Everyone had gone, back to hotels and inns and restaurants and train trips home, away from the pain, the loss. 

He’s been on the far side of the grave, been the one thanking people for coming, for the flowers and condolences.  _ Means a lot to him, believe me _ . Laguna has gotten good at small talk after years in politics, and this, at least, is something he can  _ do _ for Squall. 

“A few hours ago, yeah.” 

He looks down at the polished pale coffin in its dark dark hole, looking like driftwood, like the sea at dawn. It suits Rinoa, as well as her being in a box can. Laguna shoves the heel of his hand beneath his eyes, scrubbing away the tears that threaten before they can actually fall. He has let himself fall apart once over this. 

The flask is empty. He tries, shaking the last drops on his tongue, tries too hard and stuffs the whole thing back into the inner pocket of his suit jacket before he makes a further fool of himself. 

“C’mon,” he says. “We should go. Let them finish up here-- it’s getting cold out, yeah?” 

He doesn’t like this, the bleak emptiness in Squall’s face, in his every action, even in the way he stands and buttons his jacket by reflex-- once a SeeD, always a SeeD, precision in all his actions. Garden is gone from his life, and still eats at him. 

Laguna rests his hand on his son’s back, and leads him away from the grave before anyone can get any ideas. 

The walk to Squall’s house is fifteen of the longest minutes of Laguna’s life. 

He follows Squall in, looks around at the furniture, the paintings and pictures on the walls. A  _ home _ , once upon a time, and the mail dumped on the floor in the entryway, the carelessness of dishes in the sink-- it’s no longer that.

“You want a drink?” Squall asks, even as he’s pulling a bottle out of the pantry and a pair of glasses out of the cabinet.

Laguna smells it from here, the winter-cold of Trabian vodka, and the way Squall just dumps three inches in his glass without ice or mixer makes Laguna think this is not the first night that his son will self-medicate himself into a stupor. 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

The glass is heavy in his hands. The vodka sears down his throat. The bottle is half-full, and then less and less as they drink and do not speak. (He has never been more at a loss for words in his life, like they’ve all danced far beyond Laguna’s reach.)

It is three in the morning when Laguna jerks awake at the sound of shattering glass, and there’s a frantic scramble for a machine gun he no longer carries, ending up with him wielding a throw pillow in defense. 

The shadows resolve themselves into furniture, still and silent. There is a noise that comes from outside, though, a panicked breathing. 

He digs his fingers into the pillow, and tosses it back on the sofa where he’d passed out a few hours prior. 

“Squall?” 

Laguna follows the sounds out to the deck. The moon hangs full and bright; it’s still hard to find Squall, huddled in the corner against the house, arms wrapped around his knees, fighting to breath and exhaling on a scream. 

Laguna’s foot bumps something glass; the vodka bottle rolls away across the deck when he kicks it aside, dropping to his knees. 

“Oh, Squall--” He isn’t any good at this-- Ellone is, she’s  _ great  _ with comforting people, and Laguna almost goes for his phone to call her,  _ come quick, it’s an emergency _ , but the motion of his hand to his pocket is some sort of signal, and his son reaches for him instead, desperate hands curling into his rumpled shirt. 

Squall has nothing, now. No one. 

Laguna’s arms come around him immediately, pulling him out of his dark corner, holding fast. “Squall-- hey, hey, c’mon,  _ breathe _ \--” 

He has never held his son. Never. It isn’t fair that this should be the first time, rocking him like an infant, trying to soothe, trying to help, grief in his bones and comfort in his words, the shoulder of his shirt sticking to his skin the more Squall cries. 

And that, Squall doesn’t do easily, just like his mother. 

“I’m here, I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you-- I’ve got you.” 

(He has Laguna, for all that that is worth.)

  
  
  



End file.
